


Master's Mend

by rabbitprint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Conflict Resolution, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Ishgard Restoration (Final Fantasy XIV), Jealousy, envy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: Set shortly after MSQ 5.3 during the Ishgardian Restoration, spoilers. Aymeric & G’raha Tia, omnicrafter!WoL, with background unrequited Aymeric/WoL and unrequited G'raha/WoL.It is a good thing that he is aware of G'raha Tia's role in preventing the Eighth Umbral Calamity, Aymeric decides grimly. Otherwise, he would have found the man to be without any redeeming qualities whatsoever.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel & G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch
Comments: 8
Kudos: 86





	Master's Mend

**Author's Note:**

> _Prompt from anonymous: "How about Aymeric &G'raha Tia? As for themes: Hero worship/envy/grudge."_

Aymeric has possessed -- and been possessed -- by his fair share of jealousies throughout his years. It comes easily to one of his nature in Ishgard, for there are many exactly like him, all keenly aware of the virtue they will forever lack. Their families vary, their faces are not the same, but all of them are unified thanks to the very same parentage that had cast them out before they were even born.   
  
Bastard. Illegitimate.  
  
As a child, Aymeric had seen how envy had eaten away at others just like him, whether they were dressed in velvets and taught to stand like meek pieces of furniture in the corner, or thrown into the streets to scrabble for crumbs in the refuse. They were all trapped in it together, unwanted offspring who had been shoved out of doors and into the hands of others, angry and jealous of every trueborn brat who walked the street beside them. Some bastards were allowed to dwell with the actual houses of their blood, and Aymeric had learned how to envy _them_ as well; it had seemed, at times, as if there was nothing else to do _but_ entertain jealousy, like nurturing a fragile flame on whatever scraps you could find in order to stay warm.  
  
His foster parents had done their best to make him feel welcome in their home, though Aymeric had doubted even that too for a time when he was young: if his foster father's affection stemmed from being paid enough to fake it, if his mother had secretly sneered at him behind his back. If they ever wished that they could have had their own child by blood, one who would have been better than Aymeric in every way.   
  
But he had wrestled with it, throwing himself headlong into his love of Ishgard as a replacement for the heritage he never had, as if he could embrace all her people as his kinfolk instead. He had learned how to cut apart his envy like a roasted fowl upon the table, carving up his own selfishness in order to better spot the tumors beneath. He had taught himself how to strangle out his shames -- and then he had turned his eyes outwards to see that Ishgard herself was a city weakened by that same vice. Commoners craving the halls of the wealthy, Houses spitting on one another's holdings, envying families and sowing gossip with the intent of destroying everything they could touch.  
  
Orphans and inheritors: they were all made victim to it.  
  
On the eve of his acceptance to the ranks of the Temple Knights, Aymeric had run down the list of oaths he had memorized, their syllables worn smooth and nearly-meaningless from bells of repetition. Once he reached the end, he had added another one: a personal vow to always bear in mind that, like all other emotions, jealousy was hardly his own personal treasure to hoard. Whether for good or ill, he was not the only one to feel its bite.  
  
Ishgard after the Dragonsong War is a city which bears all those sins still, inscribed in frost and ash. It is an Ishgard which is still struggling -- as Aymeric had, angry and weeping at the taunts of his childhood peers -- but it is a nation which is doing its best to overcome it. The efforts to find a bridge are exhausting; Aymeric spends most of his bells trying to defuse the fears on both sides of the Houses of Lords and Commons, taking advantage of the sparse breathing room the Garlean forces have offered them in the sudden havoc since Varis's death.  
  
There is so much to do in both Ishgard and the rest of Eorzea itself that Aymeric's attention is completely engulfed by daily business alone -- and so it is entirely to his surprise when the Warrior of Light drags themselves into the city on one unremarkable, blustery morning, looking exhausted and harried as they request a private meeting.  
  
No less would be granted them, of course. The messenger who runs to pass along the news does not tarry, and Aymeric immediately begs Lucia to forestall his other appointments for the day. His pleasure at seeing the Warrior again is only tempered by a careful dread for what their sudden visit might herald; he can already tell that this is no pleasant summer's visit.   
  
As it turns out, that dread is entirely warranted.   
  
He listens in growing unease as the Warrior explains the nature of the threat that has just been narrowly averted from Eorzea, a shadow war that had transpired far away from the Garlean aggressions. Years passed in only a few suns, several of the Scions swept free from their bodies. Ascians. The destruction of entire worlds.  
  
Black Rose. An Eighth Umbral Calamity.   
  
Aymeric does not insult the Warrior by doubting their words. Stranger events had transpired during the Dragonsong War; the manipulation of time seems tame by comparison. If someone had told him even a few moons past that he would ride willingly on the back of a dragon one day, Aymeric would have laughed -- and then wondered at what sort of scheme was setting him up to be charged as a heretic. Now, faced with tales of other lands and Ascian plots, he leans back in his chair, keeping his questions still with an effort as he listens to all the reasons to keep to such secrecy.   
  
His first reaction -- after the horror of it all -- is that of gratitude. Many would desire to have their hands upon the skeins of time. More would wish knowledge of the future, regardless of if that future has been averted or not. Still, the Warrior saw fit to bring Aymeric into their confidence. Underneath a thick, nauseating layer of dread at how narrowly their fates have been averted, he _is_ pleased that the Warrior trusts him so much -- pleased _and_ terrified, but pleased nonetheless.  
  
Yet, even as Aymeric makes the decision to keep this knowledge hidden from the rest of Ishgard, nodding along in agreement, he feels a stir of disquiet that burrows into each of his veins like parasites into bark. His father had been offered the same great choice. Thordan had chosen not to share the truth about the Dragonsong War, claiming that it would only disturb the people of Ishgard far more than it could heal.   
  
Perhaps this is _exactly_ how Aymeric's father had rationalized his lies when confronted with the truth about Ratatoskr and Ishgard.  
  
If this is to be his own secret -- shouldered so soon after Aymeric had decried his father for retaining his -- then he is not certain if he is entirely ready for it.  
  
But there is more, at least, to occupy his concerns. Nanamo Ul Namo has yet to be informed as well, and Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn too; the Warrior is merely making the rounds. For all that Aymeric is overjoyed to see them, the toll of battle remains on their bones. They look several ponzes lighter, and their pallor is waxen; there are new lines in the corners of their eyes which were not there before, the product of exhaustion and grief. If he can do nothing else, he can at least grant them all the hospitality of Ishgard herself, throwing open all the doors in Borel Manor if House Fortemps should run short on room. There is nothing he will not do to make the Warrior feel welcome.  
  
The Warrior -- and their guest.

* * *

He does not know this new Scion: a man named G'raha Tia, who had been caught up in the flow of time and whisked forward and back through the years and worlds both. Who had been instrumental in saving the Warrior from certain death -- the Warrior and the entirety of Eorzea and beyond, by the sound of it, the very fate of their world and all the peoples upon it. The Warrior does not share many details, and Aymeric does not pry; he can guess that such mishaps might abound ever since the Primal Alexander had sprouted out of the Thaliak River in Dravania, which was a topic that Aymeric had kept close watch on ever since hearing of its appearance. A Primal in the fields behind one's estate was nothing to treat like an overgrown marmot, even if that backyard technically belonged to the absent Sharlayans instead.   
  
To hear the Warrior speak of it, G'raha Tia is the true savior of them all. _He_ is the hero they all should be thanking -- and yet Aymeric finds himself biting his own tongue, for reasons that have little to do with the request to keep the information private.   
  
Something about G'raha Tia puts Aymeric's teeth on edge, despite all the vaunted praise of the man's actions. He stands arrogantly at the Warrior's side as if he belongs there, speaking quietly in intimate murmurs to their ear, and leaning his hand upon their shoulder with brazen possessiveness. It is intentional, Aymeric knows; each time G'raha trespasses into the Warrior's territory, he makes a deliberate glance in Aymeric's direction, checking to make sure that every act of overfamiliarity is _seen_.  
  
It is a ridiculous, _petty_ form of provocation, and Aymeric finds himself exasperated despite his best efforts at patience.  
  
But on one matter, at least, both he and G'raha are agreed: the Warrior must take some time to finally rest.   
  
Ishgard is the best place for it, in Aymeric's opinion. The weather may be bitterly cold on the best of days -- but that is all the more reason to stay beside a hearth with nourishing soups and fine wines, the softest blankets wrapped over one's body and good company to idle away the bells. Their long war against dragonkind has ended, though that does not mean the city has been made toothless; Aymeric sports his own scar attesting to _that_.   
  
Yet, even as the Warrior reluctantly agrees -- throwing up their hands with a wistful sigh, battered by the arguments from both sides -- they also ask for G'raha Tia to be allowed access to Ishgard's libraries.  
  
It is no small request, even in the most peaceful of times. Despite that, if G'raha Tia had been any other Scion, Aymeric would have granted permission on the spot. But G'raha is new, and he is -- _unpleasant_ to speak to, for all that the Warrior does not seem to notice. This miqo'te, who has the Warrior's trust so implicitly. Who has journeyed with them on an entirely different world beyond Eorzea, having adventures together that Aymeric could never dream of, sharing experiences that he will never see, battles he will never taste. Who has the freedom to do such things, for he is not responsible for taking care of an entire nation and its people against threats which have haunted them for centuries.   
  
It is a good thing that Aymeric is aware of the man's role in preventing the Eighth Umbral Calamity, he decides grimly. Otherwise, he would have found G'raha Tia to be without any redeeming qualities whatsoever.

* * *

He sets his jaw when it comes time to escort the man the next morning to Saint Endalim's Scholasticate -- as requested -- thankful for the thick scarf which wraps around his face and conceals some of his expression.  
  
G'raha is similarly bundled; he dresses as one who has either never visited winter climes, or has simply forgotten how stiffly frost can bite. His hands are bundled in thick enough gloves that his fingers resemble woolen sausages. He has even managed to finagle a hat from somewhere -- Halone only knows which merchants in the Jeweled Crozier might have had the forethought to knit clothing with room for miqo'te ears -- and wears it jammed down to his eyebrows.  
  
"Of course, I am _not_ here to study the _Enchiridion,_ " the man remarks glibly as he trots beside Aymeric. Despite his shorter legs, he keeps the pace; Aymeric resists the urge to lengthen his stride just to see if the man will break into a pant. "There were many volumes which were rendered nearly illegible due to the great amount of damage they had suffered with the years, and I was unable to read them in full. I would very much enjoy the opportunity to examine their passages in an intact condition." He rounds the corner to the next stairwell and briskly begins another round of climbing. "And, as I am an outsider, I would never have the permission otherwise. I would be a fool not to indulge to the hilt."  
  
The reminder rubs at Aymeric, like the leather of an ill-fitting boot that is rubbing the back of his heel raw with each step. "Naturally, we will allow you to peruse any resources you wish," he replies, wondering if G'raha's list is only a handful of books long. "Though some materials may be held or otherwise needed by students, and I must ask that you respect their academic requirements whenever possible."  
  
He had hoped to dull some of the man's forthrightness, reminding him that the Scholasticate is a place of scholarship, and not casual browsing -- but G'raha merely shrugs, his tail flicking about his legs. "Ah, yes. Indeed, 'tis a crucial time in any student's life, to have the luxury to study before it becomes a matter of life and death." He tilts his head up, giving Aymeric a thoughtful glance, like a hound wondering if there are still a few scraps left to steal from the table. "I understand the major curriculum is being reviewed in light of the Dragonsong War as well, no? 'Tis always during these times of revelation and change that some of the most insightful discoveries in author prejudices can be uncovered."  
  
The observation is keener than Aymeric expects from a casual traveler, immediately dismissing his hope that the miqo'te only pretends to scholarship as a means of impressing his companions. It does not endear G'raha to him any more dearly. If this man had come under any other circumstances, Aymeric would likely have refused on principle, as deplorable as it might be to resort to the same shallow judgements that had shackled his nation in the past.   
  
But he trusts the Warrior -- and, more importantly, he does not wish to bother them. They had still been sleeping heavily when Aymeric had stopped by Fortemps Manor to fetch G'raha, missing even the morning meal. According to the steward, they had been exhausted enough to have fallen asleep in the bath the night before, lulled by heat and steam. Aymeric will have to send his personal chirurgeon to them later for examination -- or rather, to ask House Fortemps if it is all right that he do so first, lest he imply that they are taking poor care of their ward.  
  
The Scholasticate, thankfully enough, has multiple smaller chambers set aside for private study. It had been simple enough for Aymeric to request one to be reserved for G'raha Tia's temporary use, and he gladly follows behind the attendant as they wind their way through the hushed shelves.   
  
G'raha seems equally eager to part from his company, which is somehow grating despite Aymeric's lack of interest in befriending the man. He drops his pack upon the nearest free chair, pulling one of the candelabras closer to serve as light. "Now that I have been properly introduced to the Scholasticate's lectors, I assume I have free passage now for as long as I require it?"  
  
The truth is yes. All it would take would be a few more words from Aymeric, and the two of them can be done here. If he is lucky, he will not have to see the man again until it comes time for the Warrior to depart.  
  
But he resists, stubbornly -- disliking the thought of the miqo'te wandering in and out saucily at whim, much as G'raha treats his presence beside the Warrior as his just due -- and shakes his head in refusal.   
  
"You must forgive Ishgard's need for such formalities, but it would be my pleasure to serve as your escort, G'raha Tia," he says politely, reining back his smile into a small, bitter twist of his lips. "The Scholasticate has endured many criticisms of late, and though you are safe here in Ishgard, I would never forgive myself if some manner of accident might befall the Warrior's boon companion while in my care. I shall return by the evening bell, should your concentration last that long. If you do not have the stamina for such reading," he adds as lightly as he can make it, trying to make the comment seem innocuous rather than an insult, "then merely have one of the Cathedral's attendants send for me, and I shall come to relieve you from your task."  
  
He tells himself not to take satisfaction in the way that G'raha's eyes narrow, like rubies whittled down into slivers, fractions of their value.   
  
"Thank you for your gracious hospitality," the man replies in kind, as stiffly as his ears are pointed back, and then he turns away.

* * *

The Warrior takes word of the Firmament's restoration with delight, honest pleasure lighting their face when Aymeric breaks the news to them over the next morning's meal of eggs and sausage. They have questions about everything: the stonemasons, the wood being harvested from the Diadem, the forges available and which fuels which stoke them. Their demands quickly outstrip all of Aymeric's knowledge, and he finds himself breaking into a sheepish chuckle as he reaches the end of his answers and finds the Warrior still wanting more.  
  
They are so eager, in fact, to look at the affairs directly that they wolf down the rest of their fare fast enough that Aymeric fears their choking on it, sopping up egg yolks with their bread and wiping their mouth clean with brisk strokes of their napkin before the others at the table are even halfway through their meals.   
  
Faced with such enthusiasm, Aymeric has little choice but to show them to the grounds himself, stopping by the libraries halfway to deposit G'raha like a piece of laundry among the books, and then sweeping onwards to the Firmament with the Warrior beside him.   
  
He thinks, at first, to happily set aside his duties for the morning and stroll leisurely about the construction site with the Warrior, pointing out the latest improvements and catching them up on the latest news in Ishgard -- but after the Warrior makes an awestruck gasp at the frantic labors of the Mendicant's Court and promptly commandeers the nearest free workbench as their own, Aymeric realizes that this will be no short visit.   
  
Within the first bell, he becomes rapidly aware that it would be a mistake for him to linger. There is far too much business for him to attend to at the House of Lords; Aymeric cannot simply lurk about the Firmament, not without causing the builders a flurry of paranoia and gossip. Similarly, he cannot shuck his armor and tie an apron on, even _if_ he is perfectly capable of putting together a quiche that would exceed the necessary standards. Francel alone is already close to having fits. The man alternates between waving his hands enthusiastically and wringing them, torn between overwhelming joy at having the Lord Speaker present to observe the proceedings, and an equal amount of panic to not have a construction accident occur while Aymeric is there to witness it.   
  
Aymeric is not a cruel man by nature. He is well aware of the pressures he exerts simply by lingering within the Mendicant's Court: Foncrineau mopping his brow, Augebert's head whipping about in terror at every crash of noise. With one last, wistful look towards the Warrior -- who is sawing away at a plank, happily lost in chatter with the carpenter beside them -- he makes his farewells to Francel and departs.  
  
He returns early to the Scholasticate, slinking in around midday through the shelves, only to find G'raha brooding with similar unease as the man stares at a pile of unfinished books.   
  
Aymeric allows himself to arch his eyebrow at the lack of enthusiasm. "Will you be quitting the libraries so quickly, ser?" he asks half-heartedly, wondering if G'raha will suddenly pull out an alembic of his own, and join the Warrior in what appears to be a literal rebuilding of Ishgard, shaping each stone by hand.   
  
His reward is a darting glance, a flicker of crimson as G'raha spares him a moment of attention and then seeks to conceal it once more. "Nay," the miqo'te replies, returning his gaze back to the books. "My talents in such disciplines are... rudimentary at best, and though I could assist with provisions, there are finer hands than mine already present. _This_ is how I can best assist the Warrior now. I have ever been a researcher into the unknown." He presses his lips together for a moment in a hard frown; the next time he speaks, it is in a mutter that nearly gets lost by the rustle of a page being turned. "My strengths in that are no less diminished, even if the _rest_ of me has been."  
  
The tone of the man's voice is different from before: determined, regretful, a private vow against an inadequacy that does not care to acknowledge its own existence. Aymeric himself frowns to hear it.   
  
All he needs to do is remain silent and pretend that he did not overhear the words, and then the moment will pass completely.  
  
But it is an opportunity to make peace, and Aymeric must take it. "I admit, you have more of a sense than I of what the Warrior has been through of late." It is a bare-bones concession, one that stings to even speak, but Aymeric forces himself to throw it out anyway. "If work in the Firmament is truly restorative to their spirits, then I shall do my best to encourage them in it. Or do you believe I should keep them from exhausting themselves on the effort?"  
  
The inquiry is awkward to say properly, navigating around what feels like a cesspool slowly coalescing in Aymeric's soul, jealousy festering like a corpse that has been thrown into a well in order to poison it. He does not like pretending that he knows so little about the Warrior, that he has no history with them and cannot make simple judgements on their well-being. It is a concession of pride alone, Aymeric serving up his own authority like a slice of sweetcake at the table for G'raha to claim as tribute, if only to soften the dissent between them.  
  
Yet G'raha does not accept it. Instead -- as if merely given a fresh target to aim at -- the miqo'te turns an impatient glare upon him.   
  
"And what would you offer them in its place?" he asks coldly. "Another war, that they might save you from it?"  
  
The brazenness of the questions stuns Aymeric at first. He blinks, wondering if he had heard the words correctly even as he can feel the blood rise in his cheeks, hot needles tracing the bones of his face, though it feels as if the rest of him has gone paler than frozen milk.   
  
Practice alone allows him to shove his emotions back, putting them in every corner of his body save for his expression and his voice. He speaks from a distance, performs a perfunctory bow. "I suppose you are correct, ser. If you would grant me your leave, then."  
  
He does not allow himself room to breathe until he reaches his offices in the House of Lords, and even then, he picks at his thoughts carefully.   
  
Years of being a bastard have given him layer upon layer of armor against simple taunts -- but the miqo'te had spoken with an accuracy that humiliates Aymeric as easily as if he had been struck across the face for disobedience. It is true: they would surely have lost the Dragonsong War, if not for the Warrior's presence. Ishgard would have fallen to the madness of Aymeric's father, a self-made Primal declaring himself a new god-king. Aymeric would have died several times over.   
  
And yet, whenever he had seen the Warrior charging through a corridor towards him, or shouting his name through a hellish melee, it had brought such a feeling of profound relief that Aymeric has nothing else in his life to compare it to. He has never spoken of it to anyone, only holding it tightly to his chest like a prize more valuable than any crown or jewel. It has been the answer to a question he could not bear to ask, as if merely voicing it would change him forever.  
  
Each time the Warrior has come for him, it has stood as proof that everything Ishgard claims about bloodlines is wrong: that even though Aymeric is a bastard, someone will want to rescue him anyway.  
  
He does not imagine that G'raha knows just how deeply his accusation has struck. The miqo'te does not need to; he has given every sign that he is willing to lash out blindly, intent on driving Aymeric away. And though Aymeric can understand a person's lack of interest in making friends, the pattern of G'raha's hostility is one that he does not, suddenly, wish to surrender to.   
  
G'raha has given him no reason to relinquish his own ties to the Warrior. The miqo'te acts as if Ishgard is incapable of properly defending its people, sizing up Aymeric's guards as if they are mere novices, and _he_ is the only one who can protect the Warrior sufficiently. As if Aymeric _himself_ would allow for any threats to be tolerated to their champion, or would toss them gladly aside for the sake of power or politics.  
  
Aymeric has accepted every kind of insult imaginable from his own people. It has always been in service of a greater cause.  
  
He does not wish to accept this.

* * *

They speak less now on their trips back and forth from the Scholasticate, forced into wary retreat from each other as if fearful of what might come next. It is not a behavior that Aymeric would have expected from either of them; he would have assumed G'raha would keep his chin up high with smug pride, crowing out fresh insults to press his advantage.  
  
But the miqo'te merely trudges along, his silence tight. The line of his mouth is disgruntled rather than pleased, and he frowns at every piece of architecture they pass. When he reads, he rubs his thumb against the tattoos on his neck, twisting at the marks of the Circle of Knowing, and Aymeric watches in concern until G'raha finally marks his place and announces that he is ready to go.  
  
Even if there is friction between them, it does Aymeric no good to encourage it. He is no closer to understanding the man's grievance with him; if it followed the same rules as mere jealousy, then G'raha would be insisting on being at the Firmament instead, regardless of his ability to contribute or not.   
  
There is a deeper grudge yawning beneath, calling to the tangle of Aymeric's own frustrations, and the prickly silence between them only continues to grow.  
  
"G'raha Tia," he begins tentatively the next time he comes to fetch the man, picking his words around what little he knows, and keenly aware of the fact that his questions expose only the depth of his own ignorance, "when you came to Ishgard in your time, how was the city? I know it was -- in grave disrepair," he adds quickly, a polite euphemism for _annihilated_ and _all its people slain_. "But from what you could see, how had it endured?"  
  
The miqo'te glances up with insolent ease, a rapid flicker of his eyes before he returns to his book -- solely so he can look over again with deliberate, theatrical consideration, knowing how Aymeric hangs on his every word. "Are you wondering, mayhap, what happened to you and your efforts in specific?"  
  
Like an icy breath of Coerthas air licking across the skin of his spine, Aymeric can feel his weakness exposed: an interest that leaves him vulnerable for an easy taunt. "Any individual with an onze of sense would."  
  
He watches G'raha's mouth twist in the slightest, self-satisfied smirk. "Ishgard had many valiant defenders in its time. 'Twas the only reason the city stood as long as it did, and we are all the more thankful for it. And _yet_ , if you are curious," he continues softly, leaning forward even as his ears rotate slowly back, flattening themselves like a saber being rattled in its sheath, "there were no great records of _you_ , ser."  
  
It is thanks to bells upon bells of listening to noble Houses quarrel that gives Aymeric the fortitude not to react past a thin, pleasant smile. "I've a friend with highly questionable skills in any form of social interaction," he says mildly, "but even _he_ has more politeness than you."  
  
"A friend?"  
  
"Aye," Aymeric continues, knowing full well how petty he is acting, but unable to resist the lure of an easy strike. "Mayhap you might learn the value of one someday."  
  
That part, at least, appears to hit enough of a nerve to cause G'raha's ears to lower a few more degrees -- but the reaction is over much too quickly, and then he is back on the offense again.  
  
"Such as the Warrior?" The miqo'te lounges back in his chair, his full attention on Aymeric now, alert for any sign of weakness. "Aye, we _are_ particularly close. How fortunate we were to be reunited after our time apart. We were companions long before they came to Ishgard, did you know? We unraveled the mysteries of the Allagan ruins in Mor Dhona together."  
  
"Truly?" It is vile for Aymeric to reverse the barb -- but, like a soldier who has been flung to the ground and whose only spear has snapped, he seizes on the nearest weapon regardless of its taint. "I suppose then that our fates are much the same, for the Warrior made no mention of _you_ either, ser."  
  
His reward is a sharp inhalation, and then G'raha looks away.  
  
Thankfully, the evening bells interrupt them from further assaults upon one another. They walk in terse silence together as far apart as the stairs allow, slinking past the Firmament to collect the Warrior -- who, luckily enough, has more than enough conversation to fill up the dead air between them, having made new friends with a group of roegadyn who had apparently all lost their shirts, and are keeping warm instead by flexing their muscles.  
  
That night, reviewing everything he had said to G'raha Tia -- everything he had _permitted_ himself to say, even when he should have held his tongue -- Aymeric scrubs his face with his hands and curses it all.   
  
He has no cause to war with this Scion. He has no reason to envy him either. Many others have helped play a part in the Warrior's survival, and if Aymeric wished to quarrel with them all, he would have to start with the very soldiers of Ishgard herself.  
  
He glares at the floor, doubly irritated for feeling such emotions at all.  
  
_I wish_ , he thinks treacherously, sullenly, like a child demanding sweets for every meal, _that I had not become Lord Speaker after all. That I was not important enough to be needed in Ishgard. That I could leave whenever I wished and travel with the Warrior, and remain a part of their life too. I wish I could be both myself_ ** _and_** _G'raha Tia, and that the Warrior would never need to see another battle again._  
  
It is a disquieting sentiment. Not for the fact that it exists in the first place, but that Aymeric has experienced -- _and_ quashed -- such fallacies before.   
  
He cannot indulge them now. He should know better than to become affected by such rancorous emotions, not when they will lead him nowhere in the end save frustration.   
  
He should know _better_ , he thinks, and stares gloomily into the fireplace as the midnight bell comes and goes, leaving him no closer to sleep.

* * *

The rest of the week is no easier.   
  
The Warrior thrives among the other builders, returning to the manor with smudges of oil and grime on their cheeks, their hair tied back in messy handfuls to keep it from catching in the works. All their conversation revolves around the construction efforts now, gossiping about the best placement of merchant stalls and who was responsible for improperly storing two thousand galewood logs, all of which have taken on rot.   
  
Aymeric reads every report that is copied to him. The Firmament's growth is moving along at a pace that not even Francel could have predicted, excavating more rubble than they can find room to dispose of. Flights to the Diadem run at all bells of the day, and each ship is packed with landmasters. An entire hall of apartments is scheduled for construction next. The Warrior has provided approximately twelve hundred bars of soap, which is certain to improve morale, if not body odor.  
  
Through it all, G'raha's mood does not change. The man constantly looks dissatisfied, though he directs his sullenness at every point around him, even glaring at his own hands -- as if he wears a shirt of thorns so thick that every motion stings him, and he has not figured out a means of removing it without gouging holes across his body.  
  
That same shirt feels stitched to Aymeric's own skin. He would be lying if he claimed that the emotions haunting him have no roots in either envy or jealousy, a spite that claws for any power it can hold over him. He has found such vices hiding in a dozen different disguises before when he was younger, like an old injury that would act up on occasion, a cramp in the back of his calf -- a manageable pain, where you _knew_ the specifications in advance, how far it would go and how much it could manage to hurt you.   
  
But this time, the sentiment grips him in a way he has not felt before. There is no clear answer as to why. Every explanation Aymeric can think of seems reasonable enough -- that G'raha is merely an insecure, selfish man, overattached to the Warrior and threatened by the presence of others.   
  
They are reasonable. But they are also simple, painting him as the innocent hero and G'raha as a farcical villain, and Aymeric knows how such evaluations benefit no one in the end.  
  
It is a struggle for Aymeric to put a proper label on what he feels -- but it is a struggle he must undertake. Jealousy is a base depravity. Envy, even more so. He cannot begrudge the Warrior for taking on other companions -- such partnerships are only logical, after all. The Warrior is an adventurer, a _Scion_ , and needs as many allies as they can find along their way. Aymeric does not want to trap them in the walls of Ishgard, as if to pretend its stones are the only armor they need. There is no need to dress them in the colors of his city, or to ask them to return every eighthnight to present him with a list of their deeds.   
  
He only wishes, somehow, that he could share in their stories as well, to be included in the Warrior's inner circle of warmth, and be remembered as more than another official out of dozens.   
  
To be -- just a little -- special to them too.   
  
But it is childish of him to focus on such things. The Warrior has already proven themselves to be generous in every way imaginable. It was by their hand that Nidhogg's furious manifestation was undone, aided by allies Ishgard would never have thought otherwise to call upon. They had defended Aymeric, had saved his life and those of the noble Houses and commoners alike. They had fought for a true end to the Dragonsong War, one that would no longer be concealed in further lies and sorrow.   
  
They had fought just as willingly at Aymeric's side, under Ishgard's flag. They had shielded the same nation that he would have gladly died a thousand times over to protect, and even now they bend their back to mend its wounds.  
  
If Aymeric had to choose between the two -- his nation or himself -- his answer would always be the same. Ishgard has always been his first love. It is his duty and honor both, and in choosing to help protect it, the Warrior gives Aymeric the greatest gift of all: one that reaches deeper than any other token or vow, that speaks louder than any promise of devotion.  
  
It is enough.

* * *

Reports from the Firmament continue to trickle in, tracking the rapid increase of supplies. Judging from the sudden leaps of inventory, the Warrior has not slowed down one bit. After soap, they had moved on to fireplaces, hammering out enough of a surplus to construct entire homes out of chimneys and mantles -- Ishgard will not lack for hearths, though the question of where to _store_ them has rapidly become an obstacle. Francel had privately informed Aymeric that the Kupo of Fortune lottery was beginning to run low on incentives; he had been forced to secretly hire on a few extra skybuilders simply to replenish the rewards. Aymeric had been amused at the thought -- until he had been provided a full tally of the number of chairs, beds, and other moogle-themed furnishings that the Warrior had been awarded, with no real explanation for where the furniture had _gone_ to afterwards.  
  
Every time Aymeric enters Fortemps Manor now, he half-expects the entire interior to be redecorated with poms.  
  
Even he must admit that it _is_ a little frightening to watch the Warrior systematically decimate the appraisal lists, as if the Firmament's rubble is simply another form of Primal that they plan to overcome by hauling away stones and cheerfully sweeping the stairs along with the rest: another anonymous laborer shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest, where the greatest concerns are not assassins or Ascians, but simply if the restoration effort has run out of nails again.   
  
But there is new life in their face again, a passion which has begun to radiate from them as if they are the sun itself. Their appetite is hearty; the few times that Aymeric has visited them at midday, luring them away for a private lunch in one of Francel's tents, the Warrior has ended up stealing so much of Aymeric's sandwiches that he has simply surrendered his entire meal each time. They have started to put weight back on, looking healthier than even after the Dragonsong War. Aymeric cannot begrudge them their labors, despite how the Firmament occupies them completely from dawn to dusk; they have a personal friendship with Francel de Haillenarte after all, and Aymeric similarly trusts the man to take care of the Warrior in the meantime.  
  
Yet for every day that Aymeric feels more at ease with the Warrior's recovery, the reverse appears true for G'raha. The stacks of books in the miqo'te's private study room only grow taller. The order of the titles changes daily, with some manuals vanishing only to return a mere sun later. Whenever Aymeric visits to bring lunch directly, G'raha barely spares him any words. Instead, he eats as sparsely as he can to avoid accidentally smearing the pages, as if he must somehow prove that his time is just as productive as the Warrior's, or else fall short.  
  
"Have you finished?" Aymeric asks one afternoon, more out of morbid curiosity than any real expectation of an answer. The nearest stack of books looks to be an entire year's worth of coursework on arcanism. At the rate he is going, G'raha might be able to join the exams himself.  
  
"Nearly so," the man claims, turning another page and refusing to meet Aymeric's gaze. "There are a few more manuals on healing magicks that I am waiting on still, but it appears that this is a week of testing, and so there are quite a number of other students who take priority." He scribbles another note, and then glances up finally with his mouth set in a thin, unamused line. "Why? Are you in such a rush to take the Warrior away from their rest so quickly?"  
  
There is no patience left in Aymeric's soul to properly cushion against this jab; with all that he has worried over the Warrior's health, he hardly deserves to be treated as if _he_ is the one pushing them back into combat while they are an ilm away from unconsciousness. " _You_ attempted to whisk them away from safety to an entirely different _world_ , if I recall. Which was a matter of _great_ concern," he points out sharply, "as it occurred in the midst of battle against the Garlean forces."  
  
G'raha, at least, has the humility to flatten his ears in chagrin at the charge against him; he tucks his fingers into a pair of fists upon the table, knuckles tight. "After spending so many years seeking the Warrior's preservation, I imagine it is understandable that I do not wish to see them back in harm's way. I have no wish to see my -- to see _our_ dear friend fall prey to the same fate we have worked so hard to rescue them from. And," he adds, as if he cannot bear to let even that minor of a comment go by without making it into a point of contention, "certainly not to witness _your_ failure to defend the Warrior from future threats to come."  
  
"You yourself served as one of those very threats, G'raha." The accusation launches itself from Aymeric's lips like a venomed barb, leaving the sickly ichor of its venom on his tongue. He can feel the heat of his blood rising, the stiff leather of his gloves creaking against his fingers as he struggles not to clench them into fists. "If not for Estinien's timely intervention, you would have left them dead upon the field, defenseless against the monstrosity of Zenos's corpse."  
  
As if he has merely been waiting all this while for Aymeric to lose his temper at last, G'raha shoves himself up from his seat, his face a mask of scorn. "And if _not_ for my own intervention, they would most assuredly be dead now regardless!" he snaps. "Or did you plan to uncover the truth of the other reflections yourself, and reach across the rift in time to save them?"  
  
The absurdity of it all is no less painful than the accuracy. It is true: Aymeric could have done nothing to stop the Eighth Umbral Calamity. None of them could have, and the sheer _indignity_ of having to admit this to someone who wants little more than to humiliate Aymeric feels like swallowing a knife.  
  
Every ilm of Aymeric wishes to turn on his heel and leave, rather than bow his head.  
  
But he stops, though it takes an immense effort -- worse than facing down an entire hall of outraged townsfolk, or House Dzemael when they are busy accusing the rest of them of being heretic sympathizers, or House Durendaire stubbornly digging in their heels and insisting on defensive efforts alone. Like a pair of invisible bracers, Aymeric pulls on the memories of every day he has spent in the Temple Knights trying to wage battles of diplomacy instead of blades, but where the consequences have been no less lethal.  
  
He inhales deeply, reminding himself to count the seconds out, and then exhales air and anger both.  
  
Only then does he allow himself to speak.  
  
"What have I done that is of such grave offense, G'raha Tia?" There are too many ways for his inquiry to be twisted aside; Aymeric does not allow it, pressing ahead before the miqo'te can lash out once more with an accusation that is impossible to deflect. "The Calamity has been averted. Your warning has been given. And yet -- time and time again -- you have acted as if I continue to engineer Black Rose by my own hand, intent on destroying us all. Is there another sin I have unwittingly committed, that you would punish me for it? Tell me what it is. _Tell_ me, so that I can _repair_ it."  
  
At first -- judging by the way that G'raha's shoulders tense up -- Aymeric assumes that his efforts have already failed.   
  
But then the man blinks, startled into holding his tongue, and glances aside in order to gather his thoughts instead.  
  
"No." His voice has gone softer, sterner, as if all his spiteful taunting had merely been a shoddy cloak he had worn wrapped about his shoulders, bulky enough to obscure the outline of the figure huddled underneath. Each moment that passes is another moment that transforms him, as if Aymeric's words have called him back from a place he has been lost within, wandering endlessly with no escape. Another time. Another world. Another doom. "You are correct. There was no way that you, nor any _other_ soul upon Eorzea could have prevented the scale of Black Rose's destruction, had it been unleashed. You... are blameless, in both timelines."  
  
With that, G'raha shakes his head briskly, even as his tail twitches in sudden amusement. "Oh, how the Settlement council would look upon me as a stranger, by how badly I have behaved here. How Lyna would have chastised me -- and how I would have _deserved_ it."  
  
Fighting back a visible wince, the man sighs deeply enough that his posture slumps; he lifts his hand, pressing his fingers to his chin as if to hold back any hastier words. "Pray, give me a moment to collect my thoughts, ser. I confess, I... did not expect myself to behave so poorly."  
  
Having no other answer, Aymeric makes a short, jerky nod. There is little reason to refuse; he has no idea of what to say next himself, not in the miasma of emotions which all seem to have been thrown about like so much shrapnel after a cannon barrage. They swirl about even as he attempts to pluck them out of the air, twisting at his logic.  
  
He is at fault for this. He _isn't_ at fault for this. Everything is too tangled up to unravel.  
  
After a moment, however, G'raha clears his throat. He reseats himself in his chair, composing his hands upon the table as if preparing himself for a formal meeting, and the familiarity of the gesture alone helps to root Aymeric in place.   
  
"You know that I am a Student of Baldesion." His slender fingers tap once upon the table, as if in command to another person or force that is no longer present. "But I have also been the leader of a city, and caretaker of its people. I know full well what it is like to stand lashed to the gates and to watch the Warrior ride away on a path which may lead only to their death. I know it... _very_ dearly."  
  
He firms his lips in thought, and for an instant, Aymeric fears his explanation is already over -- but the man draws breath to speak again, still choosing a slower, deliberate pace to assemble his words. "I have experienced all these moments keenly, Lord Speaker -- and thus, I should have had naught but the greatest of sympathies for you. Instead, when I came here to Ishgard, and was faced with you in your fine regalia of blue and gold, clad in all the influence I had given up?" With a wry, rueful shake of his head, G'raha makes a dismissive flick of his fingers, straightening his shoulders as he continues his explanation. "That was _all_ I saw. My own reflection back here upon the Source, but one which remained powerful, able to aid the Warrior in ways _I_ had been incapable of. And so I... needed to belittle you in my mind somehow. To reduce your worth. If I could convince myself that you only carried the seeds of failure -- in this time and another -- then such condemnation would easily justify all my jealousy. _All_ my envy. You would no longer be someone who had outdone me, but a person I could look down upon, and not be plagued by regrets."  
  
A dozen instinctive defenses leap to Aymeric's lips; he resists the urge to speak every single one. He does not need to make this into a battle any longer. G'raha is already allowing himself to bleed.  
  
It takes courage, Aymeric knows, to admit to such poisonous thoughts. It is an act of trust. He will not squander that now.   
  
"You have been through a great ordeal," he acknowledges slowly, picking his own words with care to keep from turning any of them into a weapon. Part of him remains bitter; for all that G'raha may have admitted to being in the wrong, his words have still left their mark. "And I can only imagine the amount of grief you have carried with you all this while. 'Tis understandable that your grievances might seek a direction to finally purge themselves upon. Many in Ishgard are in a similar position. They have only known the dragons as a nameless, unified force which has tormented them for generations. And now, to be presented with those who were once considered heretics as their kin again? It invites them to focus the whole of their angers upon any targets they can find, in order to excise that feeling of powerlessness from themselves. It is difficult -- and it will take time to recover."   
  
But G'raha does not accept the easy excuse out, which relieves Aymeric more than he would like to admit. "'Twas still an ungracious, small-minded act on my part," the miqo'te counters gently. Shaking his head with a sigh, he continues to pick through his words with the same clumsiness that has haunted Aymeric each night, seeking the beginnings of each emotion and only finding conflicting sources that snarl further and further into blame. "And the uncertainty of it continues to stew. I have been struggling, at times, with adjusting to this life again. Before, I had resources which were... far more significant than what I can muster here, both in combat and other means of support."   
  
His right hand lifts, spreading its fingers in the air as he studies it, though Aymeric can see no sign of magic or other power to mark the skin. "And then _you_ appeared, and I could not help but envy your ability to aid the Warrior, regardless of how I know your responsibilities bind you. Your words have weight in both this nation and in others. While I -- I am simply G'raha Tia," he adds, his mouth twisting. "Far weaker with magicks and weapons, of little influence now and a mere novice to the Scions. Does the Warrior need me still in my reduced capacities? Can I provide enough aid to them, or will I fall short? Having gone through so much to see them restored, will it only become _my_ turn next to fail them, just as Eorzea could not save them from Black Rose? I... do not know if I could bear that. And yet, the possibility feels far too real."  
  
With that, the man leans his elbow against the table, rubbing his brow in exhaustion. Aymeric resists the urge to do the same. The fight is draining out of him -- and gladly, like a greatsword he has been struggling to hold extended with only one hand, the weight of it making his muscles scream until that pain had replaced all rational thought.   
  
"In that, at least, you are not alone, G'raha Tia." He intends to remain solemn, but even as he frames the words, Aymeric finds himself smiling in wry sympathy. "None of us are heroes on our own -- not even the Warrior. The efforts of farmers and gamekeepers provide us the food we need to eat. Weavers and leatherworkers offer us with clothing to keep warm, and smithies place weapons in our hands and armor on our backs. Cities to rest in. We build these things together, and without these efforts of support, even the Warrior would be unable to shine. And yet, despite how I know the importance of it all," he confesses, laughing now as he can finally feel the last of his defensiveness begin to finally ease, "it _all_ seems so negligible when compared to _your_ ability to stand beside them, seeing the same things they do and fighting their battles with them. To have what part of my heart truly _does_ wish for, even though the rest of me would never give up my duty to pursue it."   
  
There. He had said it, Halone save him. If there is a time for G'raha to take advantage of their conversation, it is now -- as if, after Aymeric had revealed an inability to give up everything for the Warrior, G'raha might somehow shuck aside all his efforts at reconciliation and reveal it to be mere pretext. A ploy to coax Aymeric into confessing that he is worthless to the Warrior, that he is somehow less willing or less concerned than a man who would travel between worlds on their behalf.   
  
But G'raha is gracious enough not to demand more, allowing that particular vulnerability to pass without prodding at it. "I suppose 'twas no surprise then that we came to such blows -- both of us stand as living challenges to the choices of the other." Making a decisive nod, he tilts his head up to regard Aymeric. The perpetual scowl is gone from his face, making him seem both older and younger at the same time: wise enough to listen, impulsive enough to speak. "Shall we start over again then, mayhap? If you can see fit to forgive me, rather, and forget the past few suns. I am G'raha Tia, a Student of Baldesion and newest member of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. And I am _also_ ," he adds softly, serious enough that the points of his ears drop, "gravely in debt to you for all you have done for the Warrior, for it is no small matter to care for them."  
  
Such praise is not needed -- at least, that is what Aymeric tells himself. But he finds it easing his nerves anyway, washing away the last small needles of resentment that have held fast to his soul, giving him enough space away from their grudges that he can look past them once more.   
  
G'raha's words forgive him; they allow him to forgive himself.  
  
He touches his hand to his chest as he bows slightly, offering a degree of respect between peers. "Aymeric de Borel, Lord Commander of the Temple Knights and Speaker to the House of Lords," he answers in kind. "And -- though I have not said as much before -- I am grateful for your efforts in preserving not only the Warrior's life, but also those of Ishgard's people and across all of Eorzea."  
  
This time, when G'raha offers a smile back, the sincerity of the expression broadens his face with a warmth that Aymeric has not seen on him before. "Very well!" Clapping a hand on the nearest stack of books, the man flicks his ears in delight. "The Warrior seems unwilling to rest until they have repaired the entirety of the Firmament itself. _We_ may not be as talented in such affairs, but we dare not fall behind either. So," he continues, cocking his head now in Aymeric's direction, "as a former Exarch and a current Lord Speaker, what might we contribute to ease their work?"  
  
"A fair enough question." The sparkle of amusement in the other man's eyes is infectious; like a lit hearth in the middle of a snowstorm, Aymeric can feel himself gravitating towards it. He extends his hand across the table, and when G'raha clasps his forearm in agreement, he finds himself grinning. "Let us see what the two of us might build -- together."  
  



End file.
